


Rye and Ginger

by DarcyMcGee



Category: Hockey RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, F/M, French Characters, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Inside baseball hockey talk, Tampa Bay Lightning, golden globes, ryan reynolds spotting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-05 11:08:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13386552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarcyMcGee/pseuds/DarcyMcGee
Summary: Billie Deslauriers: female NHL player, two-time Olympic gold medalist, and single as fuck. Sidelined by injury, she jumps at the chance to attend a fancy Hollywood awards show with an old friend. And amidst the gowns and champagne, a super hero is just what she needs.





	Rye and Ginger

_These are just a couple of my cravings_

_Everything it seems I like’s a little bit stronger_

_A little bit thicker, a little bit harmful for me_

_“Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk”, Rufus Wainwright_

___

**December 14, 2016: Calgary, Alberta**

“Fuck yeah Killer!”

Barely 30 seconds into the 3rd, Killorn caught his own rebound to put the Lightning up 5-1.

Billie high fived him before jumping over the boards for her own shift, skating to her place on the wing off the centre dot.

The Flames were getting frustrated, getting lit up in their own barn, and it was showing. Backlund won the draw, but bobbled the pass to Tkachuk. Billie darted forward, cradling the puck with her stick. She wheeled around Giordano, leading her line a 3-on-1 rush to the Flames end.

She would see the replays later: Tkachuk cross-checking her into the boards; Boyle jumping Tkachuk, and the ensuing line brawl; Brown in the scrum, trying to muscle bodies away from the prone Billie.

In the moment, Billie couldn’t breathe. Her shoulder, driven hard into the boards, erupted in pain. She crumpled to the ice, the wind knocked out of her. Between gasping for breath, she was swearing.

She heard Tom’s voice --their trainer-- going through the checks, asking what hurt, if she knew where she was, who she was.

“Neck’s fine. Shoulder’s fucked.”

“Want to try standing?”

“ _Esti de-_ yeah.”

Paquette and the trainer helped her up. She could vaguely hear the crowd clapping, the stick taps, as they skated her to the bench, but her ears were still ringing from the hit.

Her left shoulder was indeed fucked, but not totally so. The diagnosis was a separated AC, but nothing requiring surgery. The doctor shot her up to numb the pain, which made her coherent enough to get through the concussion test.

Then, while the rest of the team carried on with the Western road trip to Vancouver, Billie was sent back to Florida with Vicodin and a sling.

**December 26, 2016: Tampa Bay, Florida**

She was on IR, listed 4-6 weeks with an upper body injury.

Her concussion symptoms had subsided. The medical staff had started her on light physical therapy and heavy pills. Her family -her grandma, her parents, her dad’s brother and his kids- had come down to spend Christmas with her in Tampa.

Billie tried to enjoy the holidays. Her grandmother baked ginger snaps, her dad made tourtière, her uncle prepared a turkey that barely squeezed into her condo’s tiny oven. They stayed up late playing Monopoly and watching the latest Marvel movie. Her mom drank too much whiskey and recited the entirety of A.M. Klein’s “Out of the Pulver and the Polished Lens”. Billie took her cousins --all boys between 8 and 17, themselves hockey players-- on a behind the scenes tour of Amalie, and they got to work out with the trainers while she did a PT session and got a shot of cortisone.

But today, as the family crowded around the TV to watch the world juniors, Billie was restless.

She left the room after the Denmark-Sweden game, which she had been able to watch without too much investment, ostensibly to take a nap.

“Just too much excitement, _Maman_. I’ll be back for the Canada game.”

But she didn’t sleep, just lay on her bed, idly scrolling through her phone. It was lovely having her family here, especially to be with them for an extended amount of time. Professional hockey did not lend itself to long holidays. Even during the summer breaks, Billie was always busy, giving clinics, visiting friends, training…

Which she couldn’t do right now. She couldn’t move in the ways to which she was accustomed. She was still in pain.

She wasn’t taking the pills. The team doctors had prescribed a fuckload of pills to help her manage the pain. Billie had taken them the first couple days before easing herself off without telling the doctors.

She didn’t want to rely on the Vicodin. It was stupid, but numbing the pain with the pills made her feel worse. Alcohol, on the other hand, well… She’d had more practice with that. She hadn’t messed up with alcohol since junior.

Six days after her injury, her self-imposed first day off the painkillers she sat in her apartment and drank two-thirds of a bottle of whiskey while watching her team play without her.

So it was nice to have her family here, to cook, to lift things, but above all, to keep her from drinking herself down too deep.

However, her family was still a hockey family, and watching the world juniors was tradition. Having them here was not enough of a distraction from her frustration at not being able to play.

The Lightning were already struggling this year due to injuries. Kuch, Stammer, now her. She couldn’t bear to be sitting at home, leaving the house only for PT, away from the team.

Her phone buzzed.

 _Nadira Aleksić:_ hey do u think youll be still not playing in 2 wks?

 _Billie Deslauriers:_ Docs dont think so, why?

 _Nadira Aleksić:_ woud u b able 2 come to la

 _Billie Deslauriers:_ Id have to clear it with the team first..

 _Nadira Aleksić:_ theres a tckt 4 golden globes if u can!!

Billie sat up, suddenly reenergized. She fired off a text to the team doctor, as well as a fingers-crossed emoji to Nadira, before returning to the Deslauriers Family World Juniors Watch Party.

“ _Ça va_?” Her mother, ever the doting hockey mom, scooted over to make room on the loveseat.

Billie, who was indeed feeling better, smiled at her mom.

“ _Ouais, je me sens beaucoup mieux._ ”

**January 7, 2017: Los Angeles, California**

The team did clear her for travel. The doctors still had her at least two weeks away from returning, so they let her have two nights in LA, during which she was strictly forbidden from moving her shoulder unnecessarily.

She felt like an idiot trying to place her garment bag in the overhead compartment of the airplane using only one arm, but lifting things with her left was still off-limits without a trainer present, and an elaborate brace of athletic tape made sure of that. At least she didn’t have to wear the sling anymore. She had also booked a direct flight; she’d only have to perform that manoeuvre the one time.

She settled into her seat, leaned against the window, and closed her eyes. If Nadi had told her anything, it was that the next day would be a whirlwind. Billie planned to sleep the whole flight in order to profit to the maximum from the gala event to which Nadira had invited her.

Billie and Nadira had been roommates in Montréal about 5 years ago. The two young women had both been enrolled in McGill’s translation certificate program. Billie was in her first year with the Stars de Montréal and was taking the part-time certification to build her non-hockey resumé. Nadira, similarly, was adding an official translation degree to her journalism degree, to expand her freelance opportunities.

Nadira left for Los Angeles after completing her certification to pursue entertainment reporting in the entertainment capital. The girls stayed in close contact as their careers exploded --Billie in the NHL, Nadira joining the HFPA.

So despite her shoulder, indeed, because of it, Billie was excited for the chance to meet up with her friend, get out of Tampa, and do something completely different.

It was a bumpy landing at LAX. Billie gritted her way through it. She wrangled her garment bag and backpack under her right arm and breezed through the terminal.

“Bill!”

Thanks to her nearly five hour sleep on the flight, Billie was wide awake. She sped over to Nadira, who was waving a placard neatly printed with Billie’s name.

“Nadi!”

The two girls hadn’t seen each other in person in over a year, and everyone in the airport could tell. They squealed and laughed and hugged. Nadira pulled away first, whipping out her phone to check her phone.

“Uber is here. Okay, I will take your bag. How’s your shoulder? No, you don’t want to talk about that. Let’s go get drunk.”

They didn’t get too drunk. Nadira’s assistant--“ _Câlisse_ , _t’es_ boujee as fuck, Nadi”--had checked them in to the hotel already, and stocked the room with bottles of Forty Creek and Canada Dry.

A benefit of being off the painkillers: she could drink without worry. Just as well. Nadira was a relative lightweight to Billie’s tolerance, which meant Billie was lucid enough to stop her friend from sending several risky sexts.

“Why haven’t you deleted his number? He was a shithead.” Billie pulled the phone out of her friend’s hand, and replaced it with a slice of pizza.

“Yeah, but he’s so fuckin’ hot,” Nadira protested through a mouthful of cheese. “Aren’t you still hooking up with that douche from that other team?”

“He’s not a douche. And we haven’t since last season. We’re just friends now.” Billie grabbed a slice of pizza for herself. “He told me he prefers older women.”

Nadira snorted. She mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like ‘douche’.

“So then who’s the last guy you fucked?”

“It was him, okay? I haven’t had sex since last March. _Criss, que je suis championne des épais_.”

“ _Ben non,_ you just need to go out with a non-hockey guy for a change.”

“It’s so fucking hard to meet guys like that though. I mean, technically I met Tyler in the off-season, but it was because I was hanging out with Luke and Sid. I just don’t know how to talk to guys who aren’t hockey players.”

“Come on, Tampa is great. You live right downtown. Grab your friends and hit up some clubs and bring a boy home.”

“I don’t have any girl friends down there. I just really know the guys. Their girls are nice enough, but like, I’m never in a situation where I’m just hanging out with them. And whenever I go with the single guys to the club or whatever, they’re out pulling tens, and I can’t do that.”

“Why not? You’re a ten.”

“You’re just saying that because you have to.”

“Of course I have to. My best friend is a ten, and I can’t let her think otherwise.”

“ _Je l’apprécie vraiment.”_

Billie grabbed the 26’r of whiskey and topped off her glass. Mercifully, the conversation moved on from her non-existent sex life, and on to reliving a party they had held at their apartment in La Petite-Patrie so many years ago.

**January 8, 2017: Los Angeles, California**

Nadira’s assistant brought brunch up to the room that morning. When Billie got out of the shower, wrapped in the cushy hotel robe, there was a full continental spread on the table.

“ _Dobar dan.”_ Nadira was in the armchair, furiously typing away on her laptop, a mug of coffee on the table beside her.

 _“Bok. Šta je ovo_?” Billie was staring at the fruit platter and mountain of pastry. Then in English she added: “Was that correct?”

“It was fine,” her Bosnian friend laughed. “Help yourself. The hairstylist will be here in an hour, and it is easier to eat before.”

Billie eagerly did just that, filling a plate with slices of melon and apple, before flopping down into the adjacent armchair. In so doing, she noticed the two discarded Starbucks cups in the garbage.

“ _T’es don ben magané, toé_ ,” she teased her friend. Nadira did indeed look rough after their late night. Nadira took a sip of what was at least her third coffee, and shot back:

_“Hé, le café règle tout. Et toi, t’es pas lendemain de veille?”_

Billie shook her head, taking a large bite of fruit. It was true, she didn’t feel too hungover. Nothing a bunch of water and a hot shower that morning hadn’t been able to fix.

They passed the rest of breakfast in comfortable silence. Nadira plugging away at her work (she had an article to submit to a Bosnian entertainment website, and was fielding texts from her colleagues about that evening), Billie watching league highlights from the night before (the Lightning had lost in Philly, their third loss in a row).  

In what seemed like no time at all, the hairdresser and makeup artist which Nadira had hired for the day arrived, and the makeovers commenced. Billie managed to get into her dress without re-injuring her shoulder (though she needed help with the zipper). The air was filled with hairspray and Beyoncé, and the leftover whiskey was shared by all. Finally, the stylists sent away, their work done, Nadira turned to Billie.

“ _Cipele?”_ She asked in her native Bosnian.

Billie nodded. Nadira in her clingy navy mermaid gown managed to drag a suitcase from a corner of the room and lift it onto the bed. Flinging it open revealed dozens of silken drawstring bags, representing just a fraction of Nadira’s designer shoe collection.

Nadira had told Billie not to bring dressy shoes: since they were about the same size, Nadira was more than happy to share her high-end heels.

The girls modeled a few pairs, before Nadira passed a pair of red heels over to Billie.

“ _Est-ce que ça te fait_?”

Slipping on the shoes, Billie stood and faced the mirror to take in her ensemble.

“ _Ostie que chu hot_.”

She did look hot. She had bought the dress at Simons for the NHL Awards two years ago. It was a two piece: a long black chiffon skirt and an elegant black lace crop top. The top was cut to show off her ripped arms and back --which unfortunately meant her shoulder covered in athletic tape was also on display. Nadira told her not to worry about it.

“Besides, a different top would cover your tattoo, and that gives you cachet.”

On her right shoulder (the one that wasn’t taped up), Billie had the Olympic rings, which she had gotten back in 2010, after her first gold medal.

The hairstylist had worked magic to help conceal her offending left shoulder, sweeping Billie’s hair to the side, cascading it so that the tape wasn’t immediately noticeable.

“Okay, Nadi. Let’s do this.”

They were staying in the hotel. They could have just walked from the elevator to the ballroom. Nadira had done just that earlier --as part of the organizing committee, she had done a walk-through of the venue to make sure everything was perfect before the attendees arrived.

But Nadira asked if she wanted to walk the red carpet, and who was Billie to refuse that?

So credentials in hand, they left the hotel by a back door, and circled around to the front.

Billie had thought she had been to fancy, high profile events before. She had walked a red carpet as a presenter at the NHL Awards. She had attended a black-tie dinner with Hockey Canada to get her Olympic rings. Heck, walking through Olympic Village in Vancouver after the gold-medal game had been the most intense experience of her life. But if anything were to rival it, it was this: the red carpet, lined with journalists dressed fancier than she was, the public lining the adjacent streets, screaming with every fancy car that passed their way.

“ _Eille, c’est què’qu’chose, là!_ _”_ Billie exclaimed as they made their way past security and onto the carpet.

“Isn’t it incredible?” Nadira affirmed. She called out to some of her journalist friends, getting a few of them to take pictures of the two friends. They also managed to get pictures with a few of the early arrivals.

Nadira was posting every photo on her social media accounts, tagging the celebrities, Tweeting in both Bosnian and French.

“This is still a work event for me,” Nadira laughed. “You don’t have to do shit. In fact, I forbid you from stressing about hockey tonight.”

As they walked back into the venue, Billie tucked her phone in her pocket. The Lightning were on the second half of their back-to-back in Pittsburgh, and the game was just starting. But Nadira was right. The point of her trip out to LA was to try and forget about hockey for a bit.

Their table was at the back of the ballroom, the highest platform away from the stage, but adjacent to the bar. Nadira introduced her around to their table-mates, all her colleagues with the HFPA. There was an elderly Greek couple, a journalist from Mexico and her mother, and a reporter from Italy with her much older husband.

None of them, it turned out, were especially talkative. Like Nadira had predicted, the fact that Billie was an Olympian provoked more than polite interest, yet none of the people had any knowledge of hockey, nor did they care to learn at that time, so the conversation lagged.

It was just as well. Nadira and Billie enjoyed the dinner, and the champagne, and were well-sated by the time the actual broadcast event began.

At the first commercial break, Nadira pointed a few tables over.

“I need to go mingle with those producers. Do you want to come, or...”

Nadira trailed off, like she could already see the negative response from Billie, which Billie did offer.

“I would rather hang out at the bar, if you don’t mind.”

So they did. Nadira went off to schmooze with industry professionals, while Billie headed off to get a drink. There was champagne at all the tables, a private label specially crafted for the event, Billie was told, but it was a little too fancy for her tastes.

At the bar, she queued behind someone she thought was on Game of Thrones, who was filling orders for their whole table.

It was surreal, this whole night, though she didn’t feel out of place. With the red stilettos on, she was taller than her hockey height --that is, her height with skates. This put Billie at ease, like she was out on the ice.

She got a rye and ginger -still fancier than any rye and ginger she’d ever had- and began picking her way through the crowd back to the table. She passed Jon Hamm and Anna Kendrick and God knows who else.

“Hey! Deslauriers?”

Surprised at hearing her name, Billie spun around.

“Yes? Oh, hi!”

Ryan Reynolds was behind her, waving with his phone. He stopped gesturing, allowing her to see what was on the screen: Google image results for “girl hockey nhl”.

Billie pointed at the phone.

“You nailed it. ‘Girl hockey NHL’. That’s totally me.” Leave it to a Canadian to recognize her. And to her delight, Ryan Reynolds continued to talk to her.

“Not to be weird, but I saw the tattoo, and thought you looked familiar, so…” he waved his phone again. “What brings you to a place like this?”

“I’ve got a friend who’s a member of the HFPA. She got me in.”

“Nice. What do you think?”

“I mean, it’s fucking amazing.” She pulled out her phone. “Would you mind if-”

“Of course.”

So Billie took a selfie with Deadpool. Actually, he took it, grabbing it, taking one of just himself making a stupid face first, before posing with Billie. He wished her a good rest of the season before heading off to talk to other people.

Billie shook her head in wonder. Then she glanced down at her phone.

It had been on silent, so notifications had been quietly piling up on her home screen: goal alerts from the Lightning-Pens game.

She had promised Nadira she would forget about hockey. But it was her team versus her friends from Pittsburgh. She couldn’t help herself.

Billie juggled her phone and drink, trying to switch her phone to her right hand so she could unlock it. She almost managed to do so. Almost.

“ _Câlisse_!”

Her drink slipped from her left hand, splashing onto a person walking past.

“ _Câlisse_ ,” Billie swore again. Chris Evans was standing there, half of her rye and ginger soaking into his sleeve, holding the glass with surprise, like he had caught it purely on reflex and had no memory of catching it.

“I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to get you wet.”

Chris stared at her, jaw dropping, eyebrows raising.

“I didn’t mean to say that. I mean, I guess I did. I’m sorry.”

Fuck, she was used to constantly chirping guys. She had said pretty much the same thing to Bish in practice a couple weeks ago after giving him a snow shower. Which was not the same thing as spilling a drink on a movie star.

A movie star who was more concerned than upset:

“Maybe you should switch to water.”

Chris thought she was shit-faced. Billie laughed.

“It’s my arm that’s fucked up. I’m not. Yet.”

His eyes --good God, he had gorgeous eyes-- darted over, taking in her taped-up shoulder.

“Shit. Are you alright?”

“Clearly not as good as I thought I was.” She gestured at his still dripping sleeve. “So, do you know where to get napkins in this place?”

“Yeah, I should go find something. I’m presenting in a bit here, and I don’t want to go on stage-”

“Wet.” Of course she had to say that. She could feel her face heat up. “Of course. Uh, well, nice meeting you.”

He handed her what was left of her drink and disappeared into the crowd.

Billie downed it and headed back to the bar.

By the time Nadira returned to their table, Billie had her statement prepared:

“ _Après avoir pris un selfie avec Ryan Reynolds, ok, j’ai renversé mon osti de whiskey sur Captain America et j’ai dit des choses obscènes.  Et toé? Tes contacts professionnels vont bien?_ ”

Nadira snorted.

“Yeah, the producers are having are great night, though apparently not as well as you, _ma chum_.”

The rest of the awards had passed without major incident. Billie met other celebrities without spilling anything on them, or making more inappropriate comments.

After the broadcast, Nadira used her influence to get them into one of the parties. They Ubered to another venue, a downtown restaurant, then Nadira promptly abandoned Billie again.

“ _C’est Constance de Hollywood PQ._ ” Nadira’s phone had begun ringing as soon as they walked into the lounge. “I’ll be 10 minutes.”

It had already been fifteen. Billie had been scanning through the crowd, trying to find the bar, when it found her.

“Rye and ginger!”

Chris Evans, striding towards her, a drink in each hand: two rye and gingers.

“I didn’t manage to find you again at the Hilton,” he handed her a drink, which she accepted, “so when I saw you walking in, I had to come over.”

“And you remembered my drink order.” She inflected up --a slight bemused question.

“I mean, I was wringing it out for a while. My arm still smells like whiskey.”

He held up said arm. Billie leaned in and took a sniff.

Whiskey and lime mingling with a light cologne.

“Yeah, you smell like a distillery. Like a fucking hipster distillery.” Billie leaned back.

Chris laughed.

“I’ll take that.”

Billie lifted her glass, and they cheersed.

“So do you mind if I ask…” he tilted his head, indicating her shoulder.

“It was a sports injury. So was my throwing my drink on you.”

“What?”

“My team was playing tonight. I was trying to unlock my phone to check on the scores, and I misjudged my grip.”

“NFL playoffs?” The boy lit up at the thought of football. Billie felt bad letting him down.

“No, NHL. I separated my shoulder playing hockey,” she added, remembering his original question. “I’ve tried to follow the NFL, but it’s never stuck.”

“Aw man, really?”  Chris seemed let down, but there was still a twinkle in his eyes.

“Yeah, my fantasy team is shit. I’m gonna lose my pool third year in a row. Now Canadian football on the other hand…”

“You like that shit?” Chris was grinning, teasing.

“Are you kidding? I live and breathe that shit. I did play with the Pats though.”

This time is was Chris who struggled to hold on to his drink (though he didn’t drop it).

“Hand to God,” Billie affirmed.

“You’re fucking with me.”

“Nope, I played for the Regina Pats.”

“What the fuck?”

“I played junior hockey, back in Canada. There is a team called the Regina Pats.”

Chris giggled.

“So you’re Canadian.”

“I knew it. My accent gave it away.”

“Funnily enough, no.”

“Well your accent is pretty obvious.” Billie did a passable Boston accent. Then she added “Hahvahd yahd” in a terrible Boston accent.

It worked: Chris giggled again.

Billie spoke up, in her own fransaskoise voice, before Chris could say anything else.

“Hey, thank you for being so gracious, back at the thing. Not just the drink, but what I said. I’m, uh, used to being in a locker room and talking a lot of shit. So thank you for being cool about that whole _schmazel_.”  

“Don’t sweat it. I say stupid shit all the time. Besides,” Chris leaned in. “It meant I got to meet you.”

“Did we officially meet?” Billie proffered her left hand like a Victorian lady. “My name is Billie.”

Chris took her hand, like a gentleman, and kissed it.

“An honour, Billie. I’m Chris.”

“You’re too kind.”

“You’re gorgeous.”

She had a thousand retorts for the guys that gave her that one on the ice. Lewd chirps about being 10-ply, fucking their mothers, vowing to really give them something to jerk off too.

This time, mercifully, she bit it all back. This wasn’t Letterkenny, it was Hollywood.

Instead she said “You’ve probably been told the same.”

There was a cocktail table near them. Billie downed the rest of her drink, and set the glass down.

Then she kissed him.

He kissed back with a gentle pressure. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her close, their thighs touching. She ran her hand along his biceps, through his light beard.

Billie pulled away first, but stayed in the embrace. Chris’s eyes were inches from hers.

“That was good.”

Chris was underselling himself, and she told him so.

There was a dull ache in her shoulder. Her stupid, wonderful shoulder. She had moved it too much for one day. She needed another drink.

So she kissed Chris again.

He tasted of rye and ginger.

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t speak Bosnian, so any errors come from Google Translate. Any French or English faults are mine.


End file.
